


Turn of Fancy

by VespidaeQueen



Series: The Gravity Well [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gift Giving, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VespidaeQueen/pseuds/VespidaeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke tries to give a gift; Anders has a realization and an objection.</p><p>
  <i>“It’s the key to the estate cellar,” she says and, true to expectation, Hawke has completely unbalanced him, she’s left him confused and reeling and not at all certain that he wants to know what’s going on.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn of Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Set several months after the Deep Roads expedition, because I generally feel that Hawke should have been able to offer Anders the key to the estate cellar earlier and regardless of romance status.

9:32 Dragon

 

Anders has just finished with the last of his patients for the day when he has the most peculiar sensation that someone is watching him. Or, rather, he gets the sense that Justice has noticed something while he was otherwise distracted by healing.

Some _thing_ turns out to be some _one_ , and Anders looks up to find Hawke lingering in his doorway. His heart - or possibly his stomach, it feels more like his stomach - makes a great swooping lurch, which has become the standard feeling when he sees Hawke unexpectedly. Or even when he’s expecting to see her. Really, that little flip of his heart - or stomach - tends to coincide with appearances of Hawke, and really, he’d rather not dwell on the _why_ of that.

“Hawke,” he says, trying to keep his surprise out of his voice and rather failing at it. Justice gives an annoyed rumble from the back of his mind; _he_ had noticed her, even if Anders hadn’t. “Fancy seeing you here. I’d have thought you’d be up in Hightown, doing high-society things.”

“High society things?” Hawke steps fully into his clinic, idly scratching at the back of her neck as she looks around. She hasn’t been here in several weeks, but it’s not as though the clinic has changed much in that time. One of the cots had collapsed, the wooden struts holding it up having rotted, but other than that it it’s the same dank little clinic it has always been. “What sort of high society things are you imagining me doing?”

“Buying expensive hats?” he offers, for lack of something better to say. “And drinking expensive wine. Or both at the same time.”

“I bought new boots,” Hawke says, and he looks down to see that, yes, she _is_ wearing new boots, ones that look fresh from a shop rather than fresh off a corpse. “Does that count as high society?”

Her boots look very finely crafted; they don’t look like they’d leak at all. Anders’ right boot is currently held together with strips torn from a ruined bedsheet.

“Considering how nice those boots are, I’d say _yes_ , that counts.” He looks up from her boots and the side of his mouth pulls into a little half-smile. “So, how’s the life of the rich and noble? Desperately boring, if you’re down here bothering _me_.”

“Well you’re not _wrong_ about the boring part,” Hawke says, looking around for a place to sit. She finds a crate with nothing on top and sets herself down, crossing one leg over the other. The new leather of her boots squeaks. “And I’m not _exactly_ noble, not...exactly.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got a family crest,” he points out. “And an estate. And a _lot_ of coin, if I remember what came of that expedition. How are you _not exactly_ a noble?”

“I’m _terrible_ at dinner parties,” Hawke says, and then laughs at her own joke. “Seriously, though, I don’t _feel_ like a noble. I honestly _do_ keep using the wrong fork and mother keeps giving me these disapproving glares. It’s like she forgets that I spent the first twenty six years of my life living in barns and three room shacks.”

“Well, mucking up dinner parties _does_ seem like it would hold someone back from being one hundred percent noble.” He finally sits down himself, dropping heavily onto a crate next to her. It’s a crate full of _more_ torn up bedsheets, these specifically for use as bandages, _not_ for holding bits of his clothing together. “Do you have to wear fancy dresses, too?”

“Oh, my, _yes_ ,” Hawke says, leaning an elbow onto her bent leg and propping her head on her hand. “Mother says I need a _wardrobe_ now. Apparently lace is a thing that will be part of my life now.”

“You? _Lace?_ That’s...something.” He tries not to think on it. Except he does, and the part of him that still mourns the loss of his well-tailed Circle robes and gold jewelry can _definitely_ come up with the image of her in a dress. With lace.

Luckily, Hawke can’t know what he’s thinking about, and he only has to deal with a sense of disgruntlement from Justice.

“I know, right?” She’s smiling at him and his heart gives that little flip again. He notices that she’s a lot cleaner than she ever was before, the perpetual grit of Lowtown washed away, and he is fairly certain she smells like some sort of flower. She looks very out of place here now, in his clinic that smells rather strongly of blood and decay.

He’ll clean up the worst of blood later today, provided that more doesn’t get added before then.

“Still, I can’t complain.” She straightens, rocks back on the crate, unhooking her leg. She rolls each shoulder in turn. “It’s what I spent a year working towards, so I guess I can put up with dresses and being incredibly uncoordinated at social events if it means mother is happy.”

Anders does wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to have a mother to do such things for. He tries not to dwell on it too long; he has his mother’s pillow and that’s as much as he’ll ever have.

“You’ve already managed to do incredibly well for yourself for just a year of work,” he says, scuffing the heel of his boot in the dirt of the clinic floor.

“I have good investing to thank for that.” She looks away from him for a moment, out at the empty clinic. He sees her throat work as she swallows, then she exhales deeply and turns back to him. “ _So_. I didn’t exactly come down here to talk about my new nobility or dresses or any of that.”

“I could guess as much.” He leans back a bit and allows himself a smile closer to the dashing ones he used to toss around before Justice. “It’s my pretty face, isn’t it? You came all the way down here because you missed it.”

Hawke laughs, loud and inelegant. “I _always_ want to see your pretty face, Anders. It’s _such_ a good face, and I do miss it when you’re not around.”

“What a thing, to be missed by a pretty girl. You’re always welcome in my clinic, sweetheart, noble or not.”

“I’m glad to hear I’m not barred from visiting my favorite healer,” she says, and then she smiles at him. At first it is bright smile, full of signs of laughter, but then it dims, turns into something much, _much_ softer, something indescribably more delicate and precious. For the third time since she’s walked into his clinic, his heart leaps in his chest; it feels raw and light, and his breath catches at the sight of her smile.

 _This is dangerous ground_ , he thinks, and he gets the most curious sensation from Justice, something like curiosity. He has a brief thought, a muted memory - a dead warden’s heart when he first saw a woman with golden hair.

“That...really isn’t why I came to visit, though.” She looks away from him again, her eyes dropping down to look at something - possibly his disastrous boots. Her lashes cast little shadows on her cheeks. “I have something for you.”

“Something for _me?_ ” He frowns.

She looks up again, takes a breath, digs a hand into her pocket and then just barrels forward in that way that tends to leave everyone around her reeling.

“Here. This is for you.” She pulls something forth and he puts out a hand automatically as she brings hers forward. Where her fingers brush his, his skin turns electric; he’s _fairly_ certain neither of them are using magic. Then she drops something into his hand and he feels warm metal rather than her skin.

She sits back and looks at him expectantly.

Anders looks at the object in his hand and frowns further. “It’s a...key.” His head tips up; he catches her eye. “Why am I holding a key, Hawke, and what does it unlock?”

“It’s the key to the estate cellar,” she says and, true to expectation, Hawke has completely unbalanced him, she’s left him confused and reeling and not at all certain that he wants to know what’s going on.

“Why am I holding the key to your cellar?” He blinks at her in confusion. He’s _certain_ that he’s frowning enough today to permanently deepen the lines already etched between his brows.

Hawke sets her hands in her lap, but he can see her fiddling with the edge of her coat. “The entrance is right outside your clinic, actually,” she says, and _that_ is news to him. His frown turns into his eyebrows rising in surprise. “And for being just a step from Darktown, it’s actually very nice inside them, _and_ the door is very secure.”

He looks down at the key in his hand. His fingers are loose around it. “Hawke…”

“I was just thinking, if you ever needed a place to go. I’m not asking you to move in or anything.” She gives a nervous laugh at that. “Unless you wanted to. If you needed a place away from Darktown. My house has a lot of rooms.”

At some point while she was talking, Anders has gone completely still. He’s trying to process this - she’s giving him a key to her _home_. Which, apparently, has an entrance about twenty feet from his clinic.

“Hawke, I can’t accept this,” he says, and he holds the key out to her. Hawke looks at him with wide eyes; her lips are parted just slightly, as though in disbelief.

“Don’t be silly, of _course_ you can.”

He shakes his head. “No. I can’t.” He keeps his hand stretched out towards her, but she doesn’t reach out to take the key from him.

“You need a place to be safe in case templars show up at your door,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Or if one of those gangs decides to bother you again.”

“I think Varric’s taken care of the gangs,” he says, still holding out the key. “I can’t take this.”

“Why _not?_ ”

“Because,” Anders says, and all the reasons why this is a terrible idea rush through him. “If I have this key, you’ll be in danger.”

Hawke laughs, small and without humor. “I really don’t think I will,” she tells him, and he feels a rush of annoyance; she still doesn’t _get_ this.

“What will happen if the templars see me going into your cellar?” he says, and there is a harsh edge to his voice. “What if I’m caught one day and I have this key on me? Or if I leave it here and they search my clinic and it leads them to _you?_ It would bring suspicion to you, and if I was the cause of templars down upon you, I…” He swallows, his mouth gone dry at the thought of templars discovering she is a mage. He feels fear and anger and the metallic tang of Vengeance in the back of his throat.

But there is no need for that, not here, not locked within his clinic with Hawke. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and wills all that fear back down. Vengeance subsides, turned back to the gentle murmur of Justice. His arms shakes slightly, key still extended towards her.

“What if you’re being pursued and they _know_ you’ll be in your clinic?” she counters, and there is a defiant set to her face. “What if you know they’re coming and you can’t get out through Darktown? Would you climb out on the cliffside instead?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says with no hesitation. “I won’t put you in danger. And that’s what would happen if they drew a connection from me to you - if they knew that I hid in your home, they would watch you. What if they discovered that you are a mage as well? What will happen to you then? And what do you think will happen to your family, once the templars know they harbored a mage for so long?”

It is unfair of him to say that. He sees the words sting her, sees her stiffen, hears the sharp intake of her breath.

“I can’t,” he says; his hand which holds the key trembles. “I won’t put you in danger. Please, I can’t keep this.”

Hawke is looking at him, all traces of humor from earlier wiped away. Even the uncertainty and worry is gone; now there is something sad about the cast of her face, a weary expression.

“Okay,” she says and reaches out to him. Her fingers brush his, their palms nearly touch; he feels like his skin is alight - and then she takes back the key. “All right. You made your point.” He sees her swallow, her fingers curl tightly around the key as she places it back in her pocket. Then she gives a dry little laugh. “I suppose if being connected to you is so dangerous,” she says, and there’s an absurd humor in how she says it, “that me just _coming here_ puts me in danger.”

There is a sensation, like the floor dropping out from under him. Like a dream that ends abruptly and badly, Anders finds himself faced with a sudden, logical reality that he doesn’t like at all.

“That...is true,” he says, and each word feels painful. Hawke inhales, sharply enough that he can hear it.

“Well that’s complete shit.” Hawke scoffs, the sound turning into a bitter laugh. “ _Complete_ shit. If I was going to try to avoid danger, I’d go lock myself up in my estate and never see the world again. Besides, _you_ don’t get to decide if I put myself in danger or not.” She pauses for a moment. “I hope this doesn’t mean I’m not _actually_ welcome in your clinic, considering you _just_ said I was welcome _any time_.”

For a moment, Anders contemplates it. Saying _no, you’re not welcome here_. In this moment, he could end everything, leaving himself free of any ties that could be used if the templars were to find him. If they were to discover what he and the mage underground were doing.

He thinks about it, and then he decides that, no, he is truly a selfish man.

“No,” he says, and then, before she can misinterpret it, “you’re always welcome here. I did mean what I said before.”

A smile blooms on her face; there is relief in her expression. “ _Good_ ,” she says, and the way she smiles at him feels like a punch to the gut. “Because you’re not getting rid of me _that_ easily. You’re a dear friend, Anders. _So_.” And here her expression turns to steel. “ _As_ a friend, let me say this: if you _ever_ want this key, I’ll give it to you. If you ever need some place to run, my home is open to you - don’t you protest! I’m not going to leave the key with you, but if you ever want it, it is yours.”

“I won’t,” he says, so certain of himself. He won’t. “Offer that key as many times as you want, I’m not going to take it from you.”

Hawke shakes her head and he swears that she rolls her eyes at him. _“Fine._ Have it your way. Just remember what I said.”

“All right, Hawke. I’ll remember.”

She sighs heavily, then rises. Puts a hand in the pocket with the key.

“Well _that_ was a fun conversation,” she says, though her tone implies it was anything but. “I _do_ need to return to my fancy estate, though. I’m supposed to do _noble_ things with my mother tonight.”

“With lace dresses?” he asks, trying to bring something of the light hearted feel back to their exchange.

She gives him another smile that makes his insides twist. “Of course,” she says, and like that she leaves him in his clinic, alone with a tender, raw feeling in his chest that he desperately does not want to examine.

He has a good idea of what it is, but he puts no name to it. He can sense Justice’s confusion; this is not something wholly unknown to him, but it’s far enough removed - it’s a feeling that’s alive, not a memory from the dead, and that makes it strange enough to the spirit.

It is a strange for Anders as well, and if he thinks about it too much he’ll have to admit something to himself. He isn’t certain that he is ready to do that.

He puts out the lantern; he locks the heavy doors to the clinic and he goes about cleaning up the blood and filth from the day, and he tries not to think too much about Hawke and her smile and the offer of a key.

 


End file.
